Bonding
by hao
Summary: ...a nameless, puppet face, with blond hair and whatever eye color. I can never remember such people, it's like they were born just to decorate nicely the room or to be an enjoyable accessory for the sake of some poor aesthetics... AU


I saw him for the first time a few weeks ago, when he was presented to us as our new collegue: a nameless, puppet face, with blond hair and whatever eye color. I can never remember such people, it's like they were born just to decorate nicely the room or to be an enjoyable accessory for the sake of some poor aesthetics. And what I hate the most about them is what form their features are shaped into – melancholy; that lost look, like the eyes were in other times and other places, a look that always seems contemplating, never judging, never really thinking. I hate it. I hate it precisely because I know which is the cause to this low masquerade: boredom born from an excess of wellness. And this kind of people, the lowest scum that never learn what living a life really means, are not worth even remembering their names.

But I was forced to learn such an offending name.

I was born by unloving parents, that died on me at the right time. I was left with my uncle, Fagin, and my cousin, Bill Sikes, since I was 3. I don't love them, nor am I grateful to them in any way. Fagin is not a bad human beeing, but he is too much of a coward to stop doing the things he doesn't want, that's why I could never see in him a source of support. On the other hand, I can say that Bill is what some would call a necessary evil. His violent nature made me get used to always beeing alert, defensive, prepared for what's worse to come – poor Nancy, his girlfriend that lives with us in Bill's room, knows way better than I what beeing around Bill is about; I always hear them fighting over one thing or another and sometimes I hear even more, but at least Nancy got used to pain and now is not crying as much as she did before. Personally, I don't get her, she's too stupid even for the lowest standards, but, anyway, who can understand women. But Bill, Bill is a terrorist, a true jewerly in that matter. He is the one I got my first beating from. When i was five. I ended up in the hospital with my arm broken and a desperate Fagin beside me – desperate so nobody finds out what really happened; so I won't tell. Basically, he was there only to shut my mouth. And shut it remained until today.

But this is not the point. The point is I'm a kleptomaniac, that's why Bill had beaten me, because I stole from him. (And, more or less, that's the reason for all the fights i've got into until now.) From that day on, my suffering started. In my earlier years, when I was just a stupid brat terrorized by his cousin and, in analogy, by everybody around that age, only physical violence scared me, it scared me to the point where I couldn't even play games with the other children at school in order to not accidentally get hit by someone or something. The truth is I have low tolerance to pain and, unlike Nancy, I can never get used to it. On the contrary, it seems that as time passed I came to be afraid even of a slight paper cut. But every aspect of life has its up sides too, because, through the sense of self preservation, I learned to be more subtle in my actions as to not raise any suspicion and avoid any harm. And somehow I succeded. I became that skilled I even got a nickname, „the almighty dodger", that could rob a pocket even with its owner's hand in it (well, probably, this is not true). In my recent years, I've suffered more of remorse and self-hatred than of fear. Once I even intended to hospitalize in a loony bin, so I could get rid of this shameful, despicable me that I ended up with. I started beeing religious, so I could somehow atone for my sins, and for a time given I used to go to church every Sunday, until I found myself at home with too many foreign objects: lighters, bus tickets, mustard, lipsticks, chocolate, pills, snake toy, pencils, chewed gum, cigarettes, foot spray, feathers, sandwiches and all sorts of other things. So I stopped going to church. Now, I'm not suffering anymore, I could say I'm remorse-free. I realized that there is no hope for me anyway and nobody, including myself, doesn't care enough to try turning me on more righteous ways. I kind off am like Fagin, really. But I can't help what I am and it's not like I steal because I like to or because I'd take some advantage of it. Stealing became a basic need, like eating or peeing. I steal because my supid mind can't perceive another way of living. Like I said, now I'm not suffering, now I can happily say that I've become the accomplished villain.

But this is not the point either. The point is that, after all this years of practice and torment, of pain and endless inner debate, I was caught in the process. He, that empty brained useless oxygen consumer, saw me; Oliver Brownlow, for this is his name and the source of my greatest hardships right now. And it happened in an awfully ridiculous manner. Before the PE class, when everybody was already in the gym, I couldn't help noticing a closet that was not fully closed, from which a piece of cloth was hanging leisurely into a corner. At that moment I knew that thing has to be mine. And I proceeded into action. It turned out to be a nicely colored kerchief, with little flowers on it. Clearly a girl's thing. So I brought it to my nose to smell it, then I burried my face in it and I inhaled deeply, in what was a moment of complete bliss. I mostly experience such emotions when I steal beautiful, girls' things. But what's worse is yet to come. When I closed the closet and turned around, there was none other than this Oliver nuisance standing in the doorway, watching me in all my splendor. In that moment I saw black: when the hell did he get there!? I'm always so careful with my environements and I precisely know, from experience, that in my branch a good hearing is a more valuable trait than a good vision. Then what happened? Did my reliable hearing failed me for the first time or he just teleported there in no time? Because I didn't hear him. And he made me very, very mad. Getting caught means that I failed in living proudly up to my name, which is not a laughable matter, not at all. As Plato said, the most precious thing for a criminal, a vicious man, like myself, is reputation. Without an unstained, clear and unsuspicious reputation, the said man could be suspected of goodness, and from this to becoming a pure saint is no more than just a step or two. Because this is how it is: a declining reputation is a clear sign that man took a righteous path, meanwhile the most corrupted man distinguishes himself by the reputation of a well respected citizen. And someone ruined it for me! No wonder I didn't hear him, with his blatant low presence and those unfocused eyes, he could easily pass unnoticed. Of course, I don't intend this to be an excuse. There are no excuses for my lack of diligence or for his worthless existence. Back then, it even crossed my mind to kill him, and if he hadn't run away at that moment, I might've brought it to action. Fortunately, he was smart enough to not let me stain my hands. I quickly made a plan for after classes.

With my hand clenched on my pocket knife, a beautiful one-hand opener knife that I stole from some tourist near the London Bridge a couple of years ago, I started following him on his way to wherever he was going. I was not surprised at all seeing that he lights a cigarette, seats on a more isolated bench, near a park's boundaries, and starts reading a book. Nothing else. But it wasn't yet the time for me to act, there were too many people around and it wasn't even starting to darken outside. So I stayed there, watching my prey for some time.

Right when I was about to think that I'm already at the limits of my patience, he finally stood up and walked away, with the book still in his hand. I followed him, getting closer and closer, because it was already dark outside and there were few people around, lucky me. I finally caught up on him in an alleyway between two buildings. It reeked of feces. Hearing me, he turned around and recognized me. Until he could react, I rushed to him and placed both his hands above his head to seize them there, forcefully. Truth be said, a display of force wasn't needed. Even after I took the knife out and pressed it (carefully, as to not cause something not needed) on his jugular area, he didn't flinch, didn't look scared at all. Not one bit.

„Damn you melancholic pest!" I couldn't help mumbling. It was annoying as hell, this lack of reaction. He looked like it was all a dream with a foreseen outcome. It was really getting on my nerves. As I was not that stupid to cause him some real damage, I tossed the knife away. Honestly, I myself was scared of what I could do with it, considering my state.

„Do you understand what this is about?" I asked him, annoyed to hear my hoarse voice. I should learn to better contain my temper. As I received no answer, I smashed him against the wall at his back. „Do you!?" I tried to be as convincing as I could, but it seemed this was getting nowhere. Then, beeing unable to hold it anymore, I punched him in that stupid face of his. With a considerably average force – only a tiny drop of blood sparkled on his lower lip. And, to my disdain and ultimate surprise, he didn't puch me back, he smiled... A kind smile, unresentful, even thankful. I released him and took a step back. He was driving me crazy! I watched him in horror while he touched his lip, wiped the blood with a finger then licked it. He smiled again.

„So, this is how a fist feels like, huh..." Then, suddenly, he turned to me: „Would you like to come over? I live alone, across the street..." And, with this, he got me. He defeated me and left me unarmed, taking from me even that intimate dignity that usually keeps someone going through the worst hardships. He saw the worst of me, I gave him the opportunity to be afraid and yet there he was, telling me words that felt more like gratitude than fear. Who the hell did he think he was, some sort of a martyr? But, anyway, my reluctance had no point already. I felt gratitude towards him as well, even though the reason for it was confusing. I didn't know why at that time, but I felt I could trust him. I reached for my knife and the book that fell from his hand. The title was indeed hilarious: „Death in Venice" by Thomas Mann. I immediately bursted into laugher. The coincidence was just too much. All that afternoon tracking him, me, a modern day and considerably younger Aschenbach, and him, a blond haired, older and more intriguing Tadzio. Too much indeed. He, of course, understood it all, it was his book, dammit. And I think we both knew at that time why all of that happened, starting from him seeing me stealing and ending up with me staying over at his house. We both felt that it was the beginning of what might become one of those weird friendships, that are born instinctively and out of nowhere, with an inner consent that takes no reason into consideration.

„By the way, I'm Oliver", he said to me when we where about to enter his house. Such naivety was indeed outrageous, I couldn't help but smile from the bottom of my pleasure. I reached for his hand and grabbed it.

„I know. Jack, Jack Dawkins."


End file.
